


Alone

by TrueIllusion



Series: Familiarity [8]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Brian Kinney (Queer as Folk), Physical Disability, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16626593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: Brian is struggling to deal with reality as well as his disturbing dreams. While he's surrounded by people who love him and care about him, he can't seem to let any of them in.





	Alone

_“You walked down with me, back to the Jeep. And we were, uh, goofing… singing… We were dancing… I kissed you. We said, ‘Later.’ And then you turned around and, um, smiled. Then I knew why Debbie calls you Sunshine. And then I went back to the Jeep, and I saw him in the mirror, coming after you… Christ! Don’t you...remember anything?”_

_“I wish I could remember.”_

_“I wish I could forget.”_

*****

Brian managed to make it back to his hotel room before he lost his grip on his emotions, but only just. He hadn’t wanted to do it in front of Debbie, so he’d fought it, and hoped this might be one time when she wouldn’t be able to see straight through him. He knew what she would have done if he had broken down in front of her. Fuck, she probably would have insisted upon staying with him. He was a little surprised she hadn’t anyhow.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel safe showing emotion in front of her, because he did. He always had, ever since he was a kid. He could cry in front of her and Michael, and they wouldn’t yell at him or hit him or make him feel lesser-than. It was just that he didn’t want to tell her why he was upset. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to; maybe she would have just assumed he was upset over Justin being hurt. But given the fact that he’d apparently woken her up screaming after falling asleep on her couch, she probably would have realized there was more to it than that, and Brian wasn’t ready to talk about the dreams.

He wasn’t sure he ever would be, really.

Brian hated how the dream he’d had tonight had made him so disoriented that he’d been doubting what was really happening around him. He’d thought it looked like Deb’s house. That Deb was sitting in front of him. But the dream had been so fucking real that it had been hard to shake it and come back to reality.

He was relieved that it wasn’t. But it was so. Fucking. Real.

Was this shit going to happen every time he went to sleep?

He sure as hell hoped not, but the odds didn’t seem to be in his favor.

Where the hell had they even come from, anyhow? Why had they popped up seemingly out of the blue?

This one had been a sort-of odd mish-mash of the previous three. This time, he was in the car with Justin, but it was like he didn’t really exist. If he tried to talk to Justin, he was ignored completely, as if he wasn’t even there. Like his presence was nothing more than a ghostly apparition. Or maybe he was having some kind of an out-of-body experience. Who the hell knew?

It did seem like it must have been an out-of-body experience, because Brian remembered one of the first things he’d noticed in the dream was that he could feel his legs. It felt strange. Abnormal. Funny how after ten years, what was once normal was so...not.

The third-hand version of Justin’s accident that Brian had heard from Debbie and Michael via the police report started to take shape after several minutes of frustrating non-communication. He saw the swerving car -- the motherfucker who could have killed his husband and left the goddamn scene without even stopping to see if their actions had fucking consequences. He saw the truck driver hit the brakes and start to skid, then crash into the wall. He tried to break through the communication barrier and warn Justin -- although he wasn’t sure what good that would do since there wasn’t anywhere to go. But his warnings went unheeded, and they careened into the truck at what seemed like full speed.

At the moment of impact, Brian’s spine exploded with pain -- the same white-hot, pulsating pain he’d experienced in the dream of his own accident the night before. Again, it seemed to be draining him of all of his energy as his vision faded out completely, but not before he saw a figure in a tuxedo, holding a baseball bat, approaching Justin’s side of the car, preparing to take a swing. He heard the impact -- the same sickening sound of metal meeting bone that he’d never been able to get out of his head. He couldn’t see it, though -- instead, he was struggling to try to make sense of anything through the curtain that seemed to have been pulled over his field of vision. The last thing he heard before he succumbed to the silence that went along with the darkness were the voices of his parents. One and then the other.

First, his father telling him this was what happened to fucking fairies.

Then, his mother telling him he’d gotten what he deserved.

Were they talking about his paralysis? Or were they talking about Justin?

Brian wasn’t sure, but he guessed it didn’t really matter -- shouldn’t really matter. Besides, his father was dead. And for all he knew, his mother could be too, although he assumed that if she’d kicked the bucket, he would have at least found out somehow, or else Claire would have called him begging for money.

How the fuck did they still have power over him after all these years? Why did he still have that inkling of a feeling in the back of his mind that he’d been nothing more than a colossal disappointment? How could they still have the power to make him feel like a worthless son-of-a-bitch, even when their words weren’t real, but were a figment of his imagination?

How could he be so aware of how ridiculous it was for him to still feel that way, at 45 years old -- with a husband and a successful business and everything else he was doing to help other people who were just as frustrated with ableism and lack of awareness as he was? Yet there was still nothing he could do to stop the feeling.

Why did everything good in his life always fall apart? Was Joan right? Was it because he was getting what he deserved?

And why couldn’t he banish the notion that somehow, some way, just like last time, what had happened to Justin was his fault? Just like everything was always his fault and always had been, for his entire life. At least, that was what he’d always been told.

Old habits die hard, even when you know better.

So now, here he was, sitting alone in a hotel room, crying tears of frustration and shame combined with sheer exhaustion, while his husband lay semi-conscious in a hospital bed, and Brian was fucking afraid to go to sleep.

He felt like he was going crazy. All he wanted to do was sleep without dreaming. He was so, so tired. But he knew what was probably going to happen when he closed his eyes. And who knew what horror his imagination would conjure up this time?

In addition to feeling like he was losing his goddamn mind, Brian was also starting to feel pretty shitty, physically. It could have been any number of things -- lack of nutrition, dehydration, and lack of sleep were just a few of the possibilities. He’d thought he might throw up when he was still at Deb’s, but he hadn’t. Thank goodness, because the lasagna was the first decent meal he’d had since Rochester. The queasy feeling still hadn’t gone away though.

He knew he needed to be taking better care of himself than he had been the past few days, but he was already so beyond stressed out with everything else that was happening, that the sheer thought of trying to get all of his routines back in line was overwhelming. He was doing the best he could, but that probably wasn’t good enough. He needed to do better. But he didn’t know where to start.

He couldn’t drink a shit ton of water this late at night unless he wanted to add embarrassment to his misery by pissing himself in the middle of the night. He was feeling too nauseous to eat. And as for sleep, well…

The whole ride back to the hotel, he’d been mostly preoccupied with keeping his emotions in check, although he’d also wondered what Justin was doing. If he’d woken up again after they’d all had to leave for the night. How he’d be tomorrow -- would he be more lucid? How long would it take before Brian had his Sunshine back?

That was all he really wanted -- to take Justin home. Or, at the very least, to not spend any more nights sleeping alone. He just hoped that the nightmares would go away before that happened. And that it wouldn’t be too long. That there wouldn’t be any complications from Justin’s injury that would mean a lengthy stay in rehab this time. Brian had decided he’d had enough of those places for a lifetime, and if he never saw the inside of another one, it would be too soon.

It was late, and Brian knew he should just go to bed. He was too tired to shower, so he decided he’d do it in the morning. Brushing his teeth and washing his face would have to do. After he was done with that, he opened his collection of prescription bottles one-by-one, pausing when he got to the last one. The one he’d been trying not to take, since he didn’t want to end up oversleeping again because he’d dosed himself up on painkillers. That seemed especially important now that Justin was awake, and Brian didn’t want to miss a single minute he could spend with Justin. But on the other hand, if he took two, maybe he wouldn’t have to repeat any of the nightmares. So he took two.

Then he got in bed, painstakingly pulling his clothes off and throwing them in the floor because quite frankly at this point, he didn’t give a fuck. He set an alarm on his phone for 6 a.m., stared at the notification bubble on his text messages again -- 42, now -- then turned the display off, laid the phone face down on the table and flipped the switch to turn off the light.

He reached out and grabbed one of the extra pillows, hugging it in tightly to his body. He wished he was at home right now, because those other pillows would have smelled like Justin, and he could have at least pretended that he wasn’t alone. He lay there awake for a while, with his mind working overtime, until slowly but surely, everything started to feel dull and he drifted off to sleep.

Brian slept straight through until the alarm went off, and probably could have slept even longer if left to his own devices. Apparently the painkillers worked for staving off nightmares, even though that wasn’t their intended purpose, and he hadn’t really needed them otherwise. But what could it possibly hurt? They were prescribed to him, and taking two was still within the scope of “using as directed.” What did it matter whether he took them for physical pain or emotional pain? If it worked, it worked. That was Brian’s philosophy.

Even though Brian had slept through the night, he still felt like shit. His stomach was still in knots, he felt weak, and he woke up with an awful headache.

When Michael picked him up, the first thing he asked was what was wrong.

“Nothing, Mikey. I’m fine,” Brian said as he got in the car, trying not to look as weary as he felt.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I am.”

Michael gave him a look that clearly said, I-don’t-believe-you-but-whatever, and didn’t argue any further.

“Ma said you came over to her house last night.”

Shit, Brian thought to himself. He wondered just how much Debbie had told Michael. He decided to let Michael be the one to reveal whatever he knew -- Brian wasn’t going to volunteer any information that hadn’t already been given to Michael by Debbie. So he just nodded and said, “Yeah.”

“I’m glad you had some company. I hate that you’re staying by yourself.”

“That makes two of you. She said the same thing.”

“You’re welcome at our house anytime.”

“I know that, Mikey.”

“Okay, just making sure. You can call me any time, too. If you need to talk. If you need a friendly voice, or whatever.”

Brian knew exactly what Michael was playing at but wouldn’t say. And Brian sure as hell wasn’t going to say, either.

“I know,” Brian said. “I’m okay. I promise.”

He also knew he was lying, just like he’d lied to Debbie the night before. But he still wasn’t ready to talk about the dreams.

Michael had witnessed Brian practically having a panic attack in the police impound lot, so he probably had a pretty good idea that something was wrong. Even Michael wasn’t that dense. But that didn’t mean Brian wanted to talk about it.

He didn’t even want to think about it, to be honest. But his brain was leaving him no choice.

That day, Justin woke for brief periods, slightly longer than they had been the day before. He looked frustrated and disoriented every time. The only thing he really said was that his head hurt, and he was tired. He wasn’t asking about what happened yet. He kept looking at Brian like he was confused about something, but he still knew Brian’s name, and he’d use it occasionally. Every time he spoke, his speech was slow and halting, like he was searching for words.

Brian just kept talking to him and holding his hand, whether he was asleep or awake.

For two more days, nothing really changed.

For two more nights, like clockwork, the nurses would kick out Brian and whomever happened to be in the room with him at the time when visiting hours ended.

And on both of those nights, Brian went back to the hotel, alone, to try to get some sleep. The operative word being “try.” His brain had other ideas, though, and continued to serve up disturbing images that he’d rather forget, or else thought he didn’t even have stored in his memory bank.

He thought better of using his painkillers to try to knock himself out again, though. He knew he was playing with fire, there. Particularly since both of his parents were addicts, although their drug of choice had always been alcohol. And Brian was fully aware that his own pain management methods were probably indicative that he had a bit of a problem with alcohol and drugs as well. He didn’t want to be a junkie, popping pills and lying to doctors to get more prescriptions. He couldn’t really afford to do that anyway, with as many doctors as he had to see on a regular basis. So he’d just have to suffer through the dreams.

Justin was no longer completely unconscious, but it didn’t seem like he was improving either, and that wasn’t giving Brian much hope. He knew that these things took time, and Justin’s doctor had told him so. That he just needed to be patient. But Brian needed to know that Justin was going to be okay, and these brief stints of wakefulness coupled with confusion and pain and fatigue and frustration weren’t giving Brian that impression.

So, when Christmas Eve came around, Brian was feeling pretty down. He’d really hoped that by this time, Justin’s condition might have improved slightly, but that hadn’t happened. He still hadn’t really been able to have a conversation with his husband, because Justin would fall asleep again after just a few words, most of the time.

Justin was asleep when Brian kissed his hand and whispered, “Merry Christmas Sunshine. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning,” before he had to leave that night.

Brian honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent Christmas Eve alone, because the standing assumption was always that Debbie would have your head or your balls or both if you didn’t come to her family dinner that night. But tonight, that was really all he wanted to do was be alone. He felt like shit, and he didn’t want to be around anybody, or try to fake any sort of holiday cheer. He knew they'd understand why he wasn’t cheery, but he really just wanted to sit and sulk, as childish as that sounded. Deb, however, was having none of that. There was no way he could get out of going. At least, not without never hearing the end of it from Debbie, and that wasn’t a position he wanted to be in where she was concerned. She could harp on something with the best of them, and Brian wasn’t going to be her target. So he went, even though he didn’t want to be there at all.

His head was hurting, and Gus and J.R. were fighting loudly like siblings do, and even though the mood was a bit more subdued because they all missed Justin’s presence, everyone else was a little too loud for Brian’s taste as well. There was nowhere quiet that he could escape to. He wished he could go upstairs -- so much so that he briefly considered scooting up there on his ass, even though it would be slow going, and getting somewhere once he reached the top would be even slower. Not to mention the attention that would draw, which would mean that it wouldn’t get him the quiet and the privacy he was seeking.

As it was, he had about as much privacy as he was going to get -- being the only person sitting in the living room while everyone else was crowded into the kitchen and the dining room, either stealing food or trying to help prepare it. Under normal circumstances, Brian would have been right in there with them, snatching bites and having Deb smack him on the hand as he did it. But tonight, he wasn't hungry.

Brian was sitting in front of the window, looking out at the fresh snow that had fallen earlier that day. Watching two kids in the yard across the street, bundled up in their heavy coats and knitted hats and scarves and mittens, throwing snowballs at each other and laughing in the warm glow from the streetlights. He wished he at least felt like smiling, so he could feel a little less like his being there was only going to drag everyone else down.

He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Michael standing there.

“Sorry,” Michael said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

Brian shrugged and pulled his lips into his mouth, but didn’t say anything.

“I brought you some of the wassail,” Michael said, holding out a mug that had steam slowly rising out of the top in lazily curled tendrils.

Brian took the mug from him and took a small sip. “Thanks,” he said quietly, still looking out the window.

“I know you don’t want to be here tonight,” Michael said as he took a seat in the recliner that sat just a few feet away. “But we’re glad you are.”

Brian blinked and looked away from Michael. He wasn’t going to cry. He was tired and frustrated and just plain sad, but he wasn’t going to cry.

Michael seemed to sense his struggle, though.

“Hey,” his friend said softly. “Are you okay?”

Brian truly didn’t know how to answer that question. His first impulse was to lie and say yes, he was okay. But he knew Michael wasn’t dumb, and there was no way he’d believe that right now. So he tried to at least blink his face into some semblance of neutrality before turning back to face Michael.

“Brian…” Michael said, sounding more than a little unsure about what he was getting ready to say. “You know you don’t have to deal with all of this on your own, right? You can talk to me about anything. We’re all here for you, and we all want you to be okay as much as we want Justin to be okay.”

Brian knew Michael was there for him. Debbie, too. Even Jennifer and Daphne. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to talk to any of them about the fucked-up shit that was happening inside his head.

“But if you need more than I can give… If you need some help…” Michael paused for a moment and looked straight into Brian’s eyes, causing him to have to look away again. “I want to help you get that, okay? No matter what it is. You can tell me anything, and I won’t judge.”

Shit, Brian thought. Just how much did Michael already know, without Brian having said a word? Did he look as unhinged as he felt?

He should have gotten help for this fifteen years ago, but he never had. His focus had been on Justin’s recovery from being bashed, not himself or his own needs. He’d just fallen back on his mantra of, “Try not to think about it.” And it had worked back then, sort of. Eventually it had all just sort of faded to the background, and the rare times when it was brought up again, he’d successfully been able to cordon it off behind one of his many emotional walls. But now, it felt like the walls were crumbling. Hell, everything was crumbling. His whole fucking life was collapsing around him, leaving him sitting in the middle of the rubble wondering what the hell happened.

And all of the things he thought he’d managed to forget -- and one thing he thought he didn’t even remember in the first place -- were bearing back down on him. Crushing him beneath their enormous weight.

“It doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Michael continued, reaching his hand out until it came to rest on top of Brian’s hand. “You’re still the strongest person I know. But even superheroes need help sometimes. That’s why they have sidekicks.” Michael paused and smiled a little before turning serious again. “I know there’s something going on with you...besides what’s obvious...and I hope you trust me enough to tell me what it is.”

He did trust Michael. He did. The problem was, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself.

How could he even begin to talk about this without sounding batshit crazy?

_So, I’ve been having these dreams… These flashbacks… Are they flashbacks? Memories? Did this shit even really happen this way? Am I making it up?_

How do you talk about your past coming back to haunt you, violently, every single night? How do you tell someone that it felt so real that you expected to see the blood when you woke up? That you physically felt the pain?

How do you tell someone that you’ve spent the last few nights waking up screaming or crying, sometimes both, breathless and terrified and confused? And that the only way to stop it is to dope yourself up on painkillers until you couldn’t stay conscious if you tried?

Would Michael think he was crazy? Hell, maybe he was. Maybe he was losing it.

He knew he had to get on the good side of this, because otherwise he wasn’t going to be able to help Justin. He was going to be too busy wading through his own shit, and he didn’t have time for that right now.

But he also didn’t feel like talking to Michael about it, at Debbie’s house on Christmas Eve, no less. Not with his kid and the rest of his family in the next room.

“It’s just…” he started, still not sure exactly how he was going to complete the sentence when he started it. “It’s a lot to deal with. That’s all.”

Michael nodded. “I know. You’re doing a lot better than I would be. Just promise me that you’ll call if you ever need to talk, okay? Even if it’s four in the morning. I don’t care. I just want to know you’re alright.”

“I’m alright,” Brian said almost compulsively, knowing that, at the moment, that was a lie. But he would be alright. He just needed to get through the holiday, so he could call Rochelle, the therapist who’d helped him wrap his head around his injury years ago and figure out what he wanted out of life in a wheelchair. He hadn’t talked to her in years -- hadn’t needed to for a long time. But he didn’t know who else to call. Even if she couldn’t help him directly, it would at least be a start. He trusted her, and that was what was important.

“You always are,” Michael said. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Truthfully, Brian didn’t know either. Most of the time, he faked it, to be honest. Maybe that was how he made it happen. Just pretending that he wasn’t feeling weak or otherwise indisposed, until he made it so, or at the very least had everyone believing that he had everything under control.

He didn’t think he’d ever felt less in control than he did right then.

“I think dinner’s almost ready,” Michael said. “I made you a spot next to me at the table. If it all gets to be too much, just tell me, okay? I’ll make some excuse, and I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

Brian nodded in silent thanks, although he knew he probably wouldn’t take Michael up on the offer. He’d try to stick it out, even though he didn’t really want to. He didn’t want to take his best friend away from his family either.

They were called to gather around in the kitchen not even a few seconds later, and everyone joined hands to say grace, which seemed to be something they only did at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Brian still wasn’t sure what he believed in, or if it was completely crazy to thank some magic man in the sky for your life and your family and and your blessings and the food on your plate. But he bowed his head and closed his eyes anyway, holding Michael’s hand on one side and Gus’s on the other.

Debbie was the one who said the prayer.

“Heavenly Father,” she said. “We thank you for this opportunity to gather together and celebrate the birth of your son together as a family. Most of us may not be related by blood, but we all love each other and care for one another, and that’s what makes a family. We ask that you protect and bless the member of our family who wasn’t able to be with us tonight, and that you lay your healing hands upon him. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

Brian never thought he’d find himself echoing the sentiment of any sort of a prayer, and he was fairly sure that the last time he’d done that was when he and Debbie sat together in the chapel after Michael was injured in the bombing at Babylon. But he was doing it again now. Desperate times, desperate measures, he supposed. Perhaps that was why people found faith so comforting. Maybe it helped them not feel so alone.

Brian still felt alone, even though he was surrounded by people that he loved and who loved him. Because the one person that truly understood every aspect of him -- the one person he really wanted to be there -- wasn’t there.

He made it through dinner, although he didn’t eat very much. He didn’t say very much either. Michael kept casting him furtive glances, but Brian refused to acknowledge him. By the time everyone was finished, Brian was feeling crowded and a little too warm and slightly sick. He remembered the joint he had stashed in the pocket on the inside of his leather jacket. He’d managed to convince one of his old sources to deliver to his hotel one night, in hopes that it might calm his nerves or help him sleep, but he’d been afraid to smoke it in the hotel room. He didn’t want to end up getting arrested. Pot was the only thing he still smoked, and he rarely did that anymore, but, again, desperate times. He waited until most everyone was distracted by something or another, then quietly slipped out the back door.

He hadn’t smoked a joint in Debbie’s back yard in years, but he remembered when he and Michael used to do it regularly. Debbie probably knew they were doing it, but she never said anything about it. Brian always wondered why, but he guessed at this point, it didn’t really matter. He knew now that she’d smoked more than a few herself in her time, so maybe she’d figured there were worse things they could be doing.

The cold air felt good. Refreshing, he thought to himself as he lit the joint and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and holding the smoke in for as long as he could before slowly letting it out. He wondered how long it would be before someone started missing him. It would probably be Michael, and he knew his friend would know exactly where to find him. In the meantime, he’d enjoy the solitude and try to not think too much.

He missed home. He wanted to go home. He wanted to take Justin home.

But that felt like it was such a long way off.

He wondered if he should start looking for an apartment in Pittsburgh. If he should start planning a trip to New York to get some more of his and Justin’s belongings, so they’d both be more comfortable. The not knowing was what was killing Brian. Not knowing how long they’d have to stay. Not knowing what the process was going to be like. Not knowing if Justin was really going to be okay. Not just in the short term, but...ever.

Brian hated that he was thinking that way, and he knew exactly what it was. This was depression. Catastrophizing. Coming up with the worst-case scenario for everything. Making it fucking impossible to look on the bright side of anything. To see that a bright side even existed. He’d been there before, although he hadn’t felt that way in a long time. And he and Justin had been so happy, that he’d thought he would never feel that way again.

Funny how life can change in an instant. How everything good in Brian’s life had been snatched away in an split second, it seemed.

He tried to focus on the positive -- that Justin was still alive. That he had the rest of his family close by. That he had Michael and Debbie and Jennifer and Gus and Lindsay and everyone else. All he would have to do was say the word, and he’d be surrounded by love and support, instantly. He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to bring himself to put that plan into action. Why he seemed to prefer to go it alone.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, staring at the red circle that sat atop the text message icon. Forty-six, it read now. Maybe it was time to at least start looking at them.

The oldest two were from Justin, and he wasn’t sure how he’d missed them. They’d come through while he was still in Rochester, obviously. Before the whole goddamn world fell apart. Several of them were from Michael. There were a few from Lindsay. Messages from Ted and Cynthia about work-related problems that they had ultimately ended up calling him about, even though they hated to bother him. He didn't mind, though. It helped him to focus on other things sometimes. Other various members of the family had all sent at least a message or two or three, expressing how sorry they were to hear what had happened, and letting him know they were there and available if he needed anything.

Brian appreciated their willingness to help. The trouble was, he wasn’t exactly sure what he needed, or that anyone could provide it. Unless, of course, they had magic powers, or were some kind of supreme being and ruler of the universe. Maybe he should start talking to God. Maybe that was the one person who could help him. But why the fuck would God want to listen to or help Brian Kinney?

He paused and looked up at the stars for a moment, noticing for the first time how clear the night sky was. All of the snow clouds had cleared, and now all he could see was the moon and the stars. He took a long drag off of the joint and held his breath again before he let the smoke out slowly, blowing a ring or two up into space.

He thought of what he’d say if he did start talking to God. Maybe something along the lines of, “Please, can I just have this one thing? Not for me, but for him. I’ll never ask for anything again.”

Brian would give up anything, do anything, for Justin to come out of this okay.

There were a few messages in there that would have been there regardless of whether or not the accident had happened. Messages from his friends back in New York. Wishing him and Justin a happy holiday and safe travels to and from Pittsburgh. Brian snorted derisively at the irony of that last sentiment, which had come from his closest New York friend.

Brian and Rob weren’t as close as Brian and Michael were, and likely never would be, but that was because he and Michael had history. Michael had seen Brian at his absolute worst, on more than one occasion. But Brian and Rob had a lot in common, mostly going back to the fact that they’d each had their ability to use the lower half of their bodies stolen suddenly by way of an accident resulting from their own stupidity. Although they were the same age, Rob had been injured longer than Brian had -- he’d been in his early 20s when he’d attempted some kind of somersault backflip dive off of a high cliff over a lake, over-rotated or under-rotated or something, and landed flat on his back on top of a log that had been lurking just beneath the surface of the water. Brian couldn’t imagine how much that must have hurt. Probably just as much as what Brian had been experiencing in his dreams. Maybe more. If Rob hadn’t been with friends, he probably would have drowned in that lake. Brian was glad he hadn’t, and that life had eventually brought them together.

In a lot of ways, Rob had become like Brian’s big brother, sort of like how Michael felt like his little brother. He refused to let Brian get dragged down into any sort of bullshit when it came to living life as a disabled person. And he’d played a big part in pushing Brian to get involved politically, campaigning for the rights of disabled people to have access to everything that able-bodied people did. Rob probably embodied Brian’s old mantra of, “No excuses, no apologies, no regrets,” even better than Brian ever had.

Brian’s thumb hovered for a moment over the button that would cause his phone to call Rob, but he decided he didn’t want to interrupt any festivities his friend might have been participating in. Rob and his partner had two kids under the age of 10, so it was likely that he’d be doing something with his family. Now probably wouldn’t be the time to slam him with the news of what had happened to Justin on the way to Pittsburgh.

Now that the text messages had been read and were no longer piling up, Brian felt a small bit of relief. Inconsequential relief, but still relief, nonetheless. That was one less thing that was looming over his head.

The joint was just about gone when Brian heard the door open behind him.

“I thought I might find you out here,” Michael said. He grabbed one of the plastic chairs from around Debbie’s old, decrepit patio furniture and sat down next to Brian. “I didn’t know you still smoked that stuff.”

“Yeah,” Brian said simply, pausing before adding, “sometimes. Now seemed like one of those times.” The pot had done a lot to calm his anxiety and mellow him out, and his head wasn’t pounding anymore. He was glad he’d bought it, and glad he’d brought some with him tonight. He just wished that he could do it anytime, anywhere -- that someday politicians might realize that it wasn’t the gateway drug they all seemed to think it was. Brian’s affinity for pot had nothing to do with the love he’d once had for cocaine and amyl nitrate and ecstasy and ketamine.

He offered the joint to Michael, but the smaller man shook his head. Brian shrugged and took another drag.

“Lindsay was looking for you,” Michael said. “She’s been over at our place, looking at the paintings. She thinks she can fix almost all of them.”

“That’s good.” Brian tried not to sound disinterested, because he really wasn’t -- it was just that he didn’t want to talk about Justin tonight. He didn’t need any more reminders of everything that was wrong in his life right now.

“She was just wanting to get your permission before she did anything to them.”

“Well, she’s got it. There’s no point in leaving them broken. Might as well at least try to fix them.”

If only fixing the paintings would fix Justin as well.

“Okay,” Michael said. “I’ll tell her. Unless you want to.”

Brian shrugged. He didn’t particularly want to talk to anybody.

He stubbed out what was left of the joint in the ashtray that, for some reason, still sat on the patio table even though he was fairly sure that he was the only one who had ever used it, and he hadn’t smoked a cigarette since before his accident. Maybe Carl Horvath’s blushing bride still snuck out occasionally for a smoke herself, reliving the thrilling days of yesteryear.

Then he put his hands behind his head, elbows out, and leaned back, arching his spine over the back of his wheelchair and stretching as he looked up at the sky once again. He took a deep breath and let it out. This time, there was no smoke -- just the vapor from his breath. The cold air stung his lungs and his throat, but he didn’t care.

“He’s going to be okay, Brian,” Michael said.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I just have a feeling.”

“Since when are you psychic?” Brian scoffed. “You got some kind of a hotline to the guy upstairs?”

“Shut up. I know I’m not psychic. I just feel it, you know?”

“Well, I’m glad somebody does.”

“He’s got you. He’ll get through this. You both will.”

Brian wished he was as sure about that as Michael sounded.

“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that there’s cake inside. Some kind of chocolate peppermint thing. Gus said it was good, but he’s a teenager, and I’m pretty sure they’ll eat anything,” Michael laughed as he stood up and returned the chair to its position at the table. “Ma made a pot of coffee. Mel and J.R. made some hot chocolate. You can take your pick, I guess.”

“I need a drink. And not either of those.”

“There’s some of that, too.”

Michael gave Brian a wary look that Brian tried not to read too much into, then turned and opened the back door to his mother’s house.

Brian followed Michael back inside and looked around the kitchen until he saw a bottle of Maker’s Mark sitting next to a plate of fudge on the counter. He reached up to open the cabinet and find a glass, then poured himself a couple of fingers of bourbon. Straight-up was the name of the game tonight -- no mixing it with the eggnog or trying to make it festive. All he wanted was the numbing effect. He knew it would be a struggle to keep it to one glass, but he’d try.

He stuck the glass between his thighs and went into the living room to join the others. Gus and J.R. each had a stack of gifts in front of them, and nearly everyone else had one each. Brian hadn’t even thought about the fact that he didn’t have the gifts that were to be given on his and Justin’s behalf, because he hadn’t returned to their apartment before coming to Pittsburgh as planned. He’d been so preoccupied with everything that had happened, that the thought had never even crossed his mind. But he knew no one would say anything, so there was no need for him to say anything either. He’d ship them when he got back to New York. Whenever that was. Hopefully soon.

Brian watched and tried to slowly sip his liquor as the kids opened their gifts. Gus almost wasn’t a kid anymore, he suddenly realized. He was nearly a grown man. Brian still didn’t know if Gus was straight or gay. Lindsay said he’d dated guys and girls from his high school, and she and Mel didn’t want to pressure him to label himself, so they hadn’t asked. Brian guessed he could get behind that. The world seemed a little bit different now than it had been when he’d realized he preferred boys to girls, or even when he’d told Lindsay that it was okay to like dick and okay to like pussy, but not at the same time. Brian liked the idea of Gus just being himself, with no excuses, no apologies, and no regrets. It wouldn’t be long until Gus would be going off to college, then maybe marrying some lucky guy or girl, and perhaps even starting a family of his own. The idea of being a grandfather still felt jarring to Brian. Back when Gus was born, Brian had honestly thought he probably wouldn’t live to be old enough to become a grandfather. He hadn’t wanted to. But, things change. And Brian was glad they had. He just hoped he wasn’t in for any particularly unpleasant changes coming up.

When it was Brian’s turn to open his gift, he tore open the paper to reveal a pair of nice, black leather gloves from Ben, who had apparently drawn his name from the hat back at Thanksgiving. Brian thanked him and tried them on. They fit perfectly, and would be a nice replacement for the pair that he’d nearly worn out last year. All of the pushing he had to do to get places wore out a pair of gloves much more quickly, and New York was cold. It seemed colder than Pittsburgh, although it probably wasn’t. Since he couldn’t have his hands in his pockets and move at the same time, gloves were a necessity. So they were a perfect gift.

Not too long after that, Michael asked him if he was ready to call it a night. The answer was definitely yes. He was completely spent, both physically and mentally. He was starting to wonder if he was getting sick. He hoped not, because he didn't have time for that, either. All of his focus needed to be on Justin. He didn't need any diversions.

Debbie sent him home with a few repurposed margarine tubs full of leftovers, just like she always had. There was no saying no to her, so he always took them anyway. He usually enjoyed them, even in spite of himself. Maybe some home-cooked food would be more appetizing than cafeteria slop or the limited room service menu.

He sat in the back seat of Ben’s car for the ride back to the hotel. When they arrived, Ben stayed in the car and Michael came inside with Brian to help him carry the stack of containers without spilling anything. After they reached the room, though, Michael seemed reluctant to leave.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

Michael raised an eyebrow and gave Brian a look, but he didn’t object. At least not verbally.

“I meant what I told you earlier,” Michael said. “Call me anytime, day or night, okay? Wake me up, I don’t care. If you just want somebody to scream at or cry to, or just somebody to listen, call me. Please. Just promise me you’ll call.”

Brian nodded but didn’t say anything as he shed his jacket and tossed it over onto the side of the bed he wouldn’t be sleeping on. He never thought he’d ever be so glad to see a hotel room, but that night he was, because it meant he would finally have some quiet. That he didn’t have to try to pretend to be okay anymore.

Before he left, Michael took a step toward Brian and hugged him, then kissed him on the lips just like they always did as he said, “Love you. Always have.”

“Always will.”


End file.
